A Clockwork Empire
by Ygneous
Summary: A fictional story based on the fictional game The Legend of Zelda: Clockwork Empire as envisioned by Aaron Diaz and published in his Tumblr, Indistinguishable From Magic. Follow this link for background information: I am not Aaron Diaz and have no claim on any of his work.
1. The Circus, Part 1: The Caravan

The caravan lurches to a stop. Light from the candle above me appears to swing crazily from side to side as my hammock swings gently. A stop means that we're in town. A town means I must set up for the evening's performance. It's a chore. There are too many books in the world to spend your life on chores.

Today's book is an odd book, an old book. It cost most of my tips from our last stop, bought from an irritating old man with a startlingly enlarged forehead. He claimed that the brain was a muscle, which is ludicrous. Sheikah are taught rhymes as toddlers to identify muscle groups, games to strengthen each for acrobatics, and the brain is nowhere in those. The book itself explains the uses and mechanics of electricity - the tame lightning of the Calatians. It is as fascinating as it is obtuse and frustrating.

"Zelda!" comes out of the flickering shadows amongst the clutter inside the caravan. I roll out of the hammock – with some difficulty – managing to replace my bookmark and deposit the book quietly on a shelf as I descend to the floor. "It's time to make camp," grandma reminds me gently, walking out of the sea of oddments, blankets, props, costumes, masks, and rigamarole of performance gear. Her feet creak on the rough wooden slats, and I wonder for the millionth time how I never hear that until she speaks.

"Already, grandmother? Don't you and Alfon need to talk to the guards? Negotiate our way in, discuss taxes?" I stand up from my ready crouch in the corner. Already my hands work the knots to take down the hammock, fingers finding their way by habit even as my eyes search grandmother's lined, brown face. She looks, as always, like an oak tree gnarled by centuries of smiling.

"Girl, we're not in Calatia yet. Maybe we're in their borders," she shrugs, "but in a town they don't know about, eh? Midoro is on no maps. You would know that if you kept half an ear on our plans! Too deep in your book! Like a tree you must reach for the sky –" at this she raises her shawl high above her head, like the wings of a bat – "while keeping your feet on the ground." The shawl flaps forward and down; the candle sputters and goes out. Grandma creaks and cackles good-naturedly along the path between the cacophony of supplies, and out through the curtained door.

I finish with my hammock in the dark, taking time to let my eyes adjust to the near darkness. It must be gloomy outside. It's always gloomy in the Foglands.

The caravan's single rafter is right above me. I can't see it, but I jump up and catch hold of it by memory. I swing once, raise my legs, and hook my knees over the beam. Once sitting on it, I push open the trap door and exit onto the roof.

The sun is shining today, so bright I can even tell where it is through the mists that always cover Calatia's southern plains, and that is not a given. My eyes drink in a veritable vista of nearly a hundred meters of town before the fog cuts it off. It's to the north, the direction we had been traveling. Midoro is a clean-cut place, all sanded wood in light colours, and roofs thatched with giant rhubarb leaves.

I've been here before, but I don't make the connection until I look south over the small field. The rest of our group's wagons slowly jostle into a circle around the periphery. I recognize the poles set up in clusters, ready to have our tents sprawled over and hung from them.

Alfon clambers up the corner post to join me. The wagon creaks and shifts alarmingly as his muscular bulk reaches the roof, and I discreetly move to stand on the opposite corner. "You look eager," he misinterprets through a thick greying mustache. "They do too," he says, gesturing into town. I turn and see he's right – already a dozen people, many of them children, are chattering their way from town to be greeted by my grandmother, who has already set up chairs.

Our first act is about to begin.

"Shall I take the air crew and you take the ground this time?" Alfon winks at me.

"I don't think I could stand to see Impa watch her son break his neck, uncle," I smile back. "Just get the rope crew ready."

Alfon's leap from the roof sends me teetering back to the middle of the cart to restore balance. He lands and rolls with a grace that is shocking for someone of his age and build, and bounces up with a grin and a flourish. Our small crowd gives a susurration of surprise.

I stretch, wait, take mental inventory. My thin leather boots are snug, laces tight and tucked, and their dark blue dye is fresh. My leggings are baggier than I like for this work, but they look right and grandma insists I'll "grow into them". That seems dubious, at age twenty, but I suppose I still look like a teenager to her. I wear my performance gear – a snug shirt of the same dark blue as my boots and trousers, sleeveless, with gold brocade in the form of the Sheikah eye on the chest. The perfect sphere of a pure white gem rests under the pupil of the eye on a homemade necklace, the only possession passed on by my mother. A wide, bright orange sash at my waist gives some contrast and allows everything else to slide around without showing the crowd some belly. The performance must look seamless, after all.

Alfon gets all the middle-agers from the wagons together, oils stuck springs on one caravan's spool of rope, has a backslapping reunion with a villager, checks canvas for tears, and generally gives the appearance of doing everything at once. He saunters back.

"Feeling limber, Zelda?" he booms, at ringmaster volume. Our crowd has grown.

"Like I could fly!" I reply. That is the other half of our starting cue. Every wagon roof is now populated with young Sheikah; they exchange nods and woops. I am silent and focused.

"Let's put that to the test!" Alfon cries, and the crowd gasps as I fling myself into the air. As I leave the roof I push into a round-off. At the apex of my leap my head is down, hand outstretched to catch the rope end Alfon has flung up to me. In that surreal moment, with the ground far above and my feet in the sunlit mists, I notice that grandma serves tea in steaming mugs and wonder how she heats it.

The second half of my leap ends with my feet on the first pole, and I'm already crouching and running it through a metal loop. Alfon madly cranks the spool to give me the slack I need for the next jump.

As my hands secure the line and yank enough through for my next jump, I make eye contact with the boy one pole to my right. He nods back. I raise my eyes heavenward for a split second, and he nods again. This exchange is a quick code; it means we will trade places on the next jump, and I will go high so as to go over him.

Our band has set themselves up by this point, and my next take-off is marked by an explosion of drums. Again, I flip forwards in the air, but this time I tuck my head and roll into a ball. I carve a tall parabola through the air to give my partner room -

All the air is knocked out of my lungs as I collide, backwards and upside down, with the boy. I am a cannonball into the taut sailcloth of his chest. I hear the unhealthy "uhhh!" of a pair of lungs trying to expel more air than they contain, and then we fall. I was faster, he is heavier, and we descend straight down to the springy earth. In desperation my feet find his shoulders, I push off, and reverse my half flip to avoid a head first plunge. He lands on his back, me on my face, the golden Sheikah eye unblinking as my chest splats into the moist turf.

The crowd laughs, the music goes on, and Alfon booms "Up and at 'em!" in an amused voice. Something along these lines happens every show. I read in a book once the phrase "the show must go on". It seemed strange to me that it needed to be said. That's what shows do. It's not like anyone was hurt. The fall was barely three meters, and no one would survive childhood if a fall like that could hurt you.

I roll to my feet and offer my incompetent partner a hand up. "Why did you jump high?" I hiss as he struggles to his feet.

"You told me to!" he whispers back fiercely.

"That's not how the code works!" I reply. He's found his feet, so I put my hands on his shoulders and jump up into a handstand. The crowd coos appreciatively, and I roll over him so we stand back to back.

"Well excuuuuse me, princess!" he mocks. I roll my eyes. I don't know where that nickname started, but it did, and it stuck. We take off running in opposite directions towards each other's poles, and scale them with the deftness of long practice.

The intricate dance of the tents gets more and more complicated as more of us fall off, collide, or get out of step. There is a pattern the Sheikah are taught as children, a technique for the efficient and orderly set up of a circus tent. It has never happened that way in our entire history. When the band's song ends several minutes later, a dozen muddy, panting performers line up to take our bow in front of a multi-coloured, misshapen boondoggle of fabric and moorings. It looks like a giant's laundry pile.

The Sheikah youth scatter; it's late afternoon, and we aren't needed again until the evening's main event. For now, our elders meet with their old friends in town and share stories to circles of villagers; our children disperse in uncontrollable glee to make new friends (and small enemies); the adults will mingle, trade, and set up. What do you get for hosting Sheikah? Free circus shows! What's the hidden cost? Teenage acrobats running over your rooftops, playing tag up and down the village walls, wrestling and throwing each other off of high places.

In truth, that's losing its appeal to me. I strongly consider going back to the caravan and picking up my book again, but there is far too much time for that when we're on the road. I opt to circumnavigate the village instead.


	2. The Circus, Part 2: The Village

The Sheikah have children in waves. I asked Impa about this phenomenon when I was young. Why were all the other children five years younger or ten years older than I was? She assured me it was by design. Our traveling groups are small, the conditions that make it the right time to have children are shared by the whole troupe, and so a generation of children is born within a year or two. When I followed up with the logical question – why was I the exception? – she took a long sip of tea, examined me through the steam, and told me what I already knew. My parents are from a different group.

Being an orphan is a life-long journey of discovery of the myriad ways you are different.

To the Sheikah's extreme credit, all of my solitude is self inflicted. Right now, for example, I opt to explore rather than wrestle fifteen-year-old boys. Such a radical.

The hardwood houses of the village are built right up to the edge of the island. Bare meters – or less – separate walls from the reedy depths of swamp water around us. A sweet-smelling breeze does nothing to lift the fog; in the valleys of Calatia, there is nowhere for the fog to blow away to.

It takes just half an hour, rooftop to rooftop, to circumnavigate town. It fits the pattern of all the mire counties, tucked in the belly of the southern Foglands: a roughly circular blob of thick vegetation and sod, half floating and half sliding over the slick of water and infinite depth of mud that counts as terrain around here. By the time I get back to the nascent circus the island has slid away from the firmer territory that rings the eastern edge of the Calatian Foglands. We're on our own in an ocean of sucking sludge.

Alfon has set up a bar, and waves me over as I return. "Want to find some cats?" There is a small cheer from the inebriated crowd. It's another Sheikah tradition; do favours for locals by scouring their rooftops. It's also a great excuse to get the lay of the land, and you sometimes get tipped a few rupees. I accept, and collect a mental list of objectives from the townsfolk; a cat on the roof of town hall, a roof on the northern edge of town that needs a minute's mending, a missing wallet, etc.

I grin, bow, scamper onto the nearest roof, and do a flip on my way to the next building. The cat on town hall is the first item I check off my list. It's clear to me he's not really stuck. He's just avoiding the crowds, and wouldn't have any more trouble than I do jumping down from roof to roof. This village has narrow paths instead of streets. There are no carts, and not so much as a horse in the whole town. I join him for a while; the fat white tomcat purrs up against me, and I stroke his head, gazing out over the town and thinking.

Foglands commerce is a haphazard affair; if you bump into another island, you trade with them for as long as you're stuck together, and say your farewells as you drift apart. There are some fogships, though barges would be a more accurate term. They're another type of nomad, and one that we Sheikah rarely encounter. Islands themselves can be "rowed", though most villages rarely bother. I look out to the edges and confirm the presence of giant oarlocks. I suppose the island worked hard to be at a rendezvous point with us. Grandma arranged it through some mysterious means.

My new friend bolts, and a second later I feel something as well. I stand up on the roof of town hall, hairs at the back of my neck pricking. The air pressure rises palpably. There's a flush of panic, a sense that the sky is falling, and looking up I can see the sky suddenly darken. I hear cries from the circus, and a handful of villagers run back in to town. It seems they're rushing to a few sheds at the periphery. Shelters, maybe?

Still ignorant of what's coming, I look around for shelter. There's a large, low building directly in front of town hall. The space it sits in probably used to be a square, or plaza. It looks brand new and unfinished. The A-frame roof doesn't yet meet the square tops of the walls.

Another glance upward shows a colossal shape descending through the fog, directly towards the town. The villagers have emerged from the sheds, pushing small cannons. One goes off with a "THOOM". Some small object shoots out and explodes against the descending wall.

I look down. It's a long shot. The avenue in front of town hall is the only one in town wide enough to deserve the name, but in a rush of panic I take it. I fly from the peak of one roof across and down to the gap beneath the other. My hands slap into the roof's support beams, find no purchase, and send me tumbling into the dimness beneath.

I land hard on my left side, wind forced out of my lungs. The roof rattles and I can feel a gust of air from one end of the building to the other. The sense of pressure and imminent doom fades instantly. Whatever leviathan passed by has only buzzed us. Several more cannons "THOOM" into the distance.

My eyes adjust to the shadows, and I look around. There are row after row of small plants in a hastily dug field. They are in flower, despite the shade, small bursts of yellow and green atop a large, dark blue stalk. The stalks might be fruits, actually; they are rounder than my head, and a little too big to hold in one hand.

I stand cautiously. The panic that came with seeing the sky fall has faded quickly. If only I had stayed outdoors, I could have caught a glimpse of the thing casting that shadow. Fortunately, the world presents me with a new mystery in these plants. I reach down to pick one, but they are very firmly rooted.

I pace up and down the rows. These plants have been planted deliberately in rows. The rows have been dug recently, but the plants look fully grown. A building was quickly erected over them, so they must not need sunlight to grow. The walls don't quite reach the roof… so maybe they need partial light?

A villager's footsteps thud up the road from the circus. I slip out in the opposite direction. Maybe this building is only abandoned because of the festivities, but it feels like I shouldn't be here.

Besides, sudden existential threat and mystery plants aside, I still have a list of menial chores to perform. These tasks are aimed at the younger sheikah, who still have to learn the controls learn to control themselves, but the tips are nice.

I run two steps up the side of a house to reach the gutters, and swing myself to the roof. The revels from our encampment had stilled when I was in the plant house, but they are picking back up already. Encouraged, I follow the directions I was given and mend the damaged roof.

The wallet is a little trickier, but I've always had a knack for finding key items. They tend to be in the most difficult places to get to, yet be easy to spot once you're there. I spy it leaning against the chimney of the tallest building in town. From the nearest building, I figure I can leap the alley and just barely grab the gutters. I push my earlier panicked fumble from my mind: I jump, grab, climb up.

This wallet is a beautiful thing, embroidered with black and white and bronze diamonds in a silky fabric. I can feel the weight of rupees in it, but once it's in my pocket I can hardly even feel it there. I head back along the rooftops.

As soon as I land in camp, I am ambushed by a villager holding my tomcat friend. "You found my cat!" the woman gushes. "She must have been soooo scaaaared up on the rooftop alone! How can I ever thank you? Please, take this, and be happy!" I ignore her blatant ignorance of her cat's gender identity and the cat's mute look of appeal to be freed from his squealing captor, and pocket the ten rupees.

I find the villager with the mended roof, and get another ten for my word that it's a job well done. She is much less shrill, so I steel myself for the strain of social interaction and ask her: "What was that thing in the sky a few minutes ago? You all seem… pretty unfazed by it."

"Oh, yes, that. You wouldn't have seen them before, would you?" She clasps her hands tightly, bites her lower lip. "It was a sky whale. The first spotting in Calatian skies was about a year ago. Some say they came from the skies over distant oceans, but no one knows why they're here now."

The man with no wallet is drinking at Alfon's bar; I sneak up behind him and drop it on his lap. He jumps in surprise. "Alfon!" he shouts. Alfon raises his eyebrows from behind the bar, a meter away. "I can pay for my drinks after all!" The wallet gushes rupees onto the bar, which Alfon sweeps away with a fresh tankard for his patron.

"Here," the walleted man says, turning to face me for the first time. "Take this as your reward," he offers, thrusting the wallet at me. I take it without hesitation. "My tab just turned into credit, so I won't be needing that any more." He grins a red-nosed grin and turns back to the bar.

A bell chimes, as neatly timed as if it had been waiting for the completion of my last chore. The crowd of villagers ooooohh in expectation and flow toward the main tent. "Time for the main event, my dear," Alfon comments, indicating with his agile eyebrows that I am to perform tonight. I tip my imaginary hat to Alfon as I climb onto his bar, onto his shoulders, on to the roof of the cart the bar is built into, and make my way along the tops of things ahead of the crowd.

Though haphazardly set up, the poles are laid out as acrobat's steps. I carefully vault from one to another. To the bystanders, it seems as if I bounce along the canvas itself. Once at the peak of the cloth monolith, I fall gracefully through a gap in the fabric and land, bouncing, on a layer beneath.

Other performers collect here with me; acrobats descend from other roof entrances, while some labor their way up ladders from the floors below. I peek off the edge of this platform, our back stage, to see row upon row of chairs filling with milling guests. Grandmother, among others, circulates with tea and buns, cider and roast cucco legs.

Back stage is full of the chat and cluck of Sheikah. Some of the younger ones have nerves, but most are just excited. Huge netted bundles of props hang around our preparation area, lifted with pulleys. We are always ready for any type of performance, whether it be a play, a musical, or acrobatics.

A hush falls below. My peering eyes see grandmother climb the hastily erected stairs to our circular wooden stage. She beams out into the crowd until all chatter ceases, and announces in a practiced voice, weathered but not broken with age: "Friends, new and old! Esteemed guests, who are also our honoured hosts! I have determined the nature of tonight's entertainment by the most noble and ancient art of the Sheikah: Eavesdropping on the crowd." There is a round of chuckles. "I declare tonight to be a battle!" A huge huzzah rises into the evening air, fair more than I expect. Our stage fighting is fantastic, it's true, and we sometimes appease an encore request with a staged duel, but most audiences prefer a bit of plot, dialogue, and character building. I shrug to myself.

"The theme," grandmother continues, "is the one against the many, the small against the mighty!" The crowd roars. "Who better to be your champion and protagonist than the slenderest slip of a thing, the greatest of granddaughters – " I start and turn to see my fellow performers grinning at me. "- the zesty Zelda!"

Grandmother raises her hands and reaches out to grab a dangling rope with one of them. Recognizing the cue, the pulley is loosed and grandma rushes upwards with a mad grin on her face. The netting bundle holding stage weapons plunges down, and many arms practically throw me off our platform after it. I ride the rope down.

With a great clatter of wood on wood, the bundle bursts and strews stage weaponry across the stage and off of it, to lie in piles on the ground. The band starts with an ominous strumming, building tension. I land in a catlike crouch and grab a small one-handed sword as I rise. The lights focus on me, and I strike my best heroic pose.

A pre-emptive smattering of applause is cut short by grandmother's voice from above. "How will our heroine fare, beset on all sides? Her foes will be numerous, and fierce, and large!" A huge man of our troupe slides down a rope and grabs a great war axe made of some soft, light wood. The crowd laughs at his comic villain's scowl. He contorts his face all the more, and sweeps the remaining weapons off the stage. "Armed only with her wits, her will, and what she can scavenge from defeated foes, she walks the edge of failure. One ring-out, and the forces of light are forever darkened. Can she last?"

I crick my neck, stretch left and right, and generally make a show of warming up. My opponent roars and stalks closer. This is not what I expected of the evening. This isn't even choreographed! Yet, I'm sure that my grandmother has a plan, and it wouldn't do to put a wrench in it. Besides, this is a lead role! The drums kick in, and the musicians play a hearty tune.

The crowd gasps as I turn my back on my opposition to stretch. I wink as I hear him wind up, and leap over the cruel-looking axe with a tight backflip. I land almost against his chest, and tumble through his legs. Before he can think to turn, I tap him on the back of the head with my weapon and push him out of the ring with my foot to his bum. He carefully lets his axe fall as he somersaults away.

I ram the small sword through my sash and heft the axe as a trio of younger acrobats descend from above. There's no way I could handle a real axe this size, but the light wood makes it easy while the metallic paint on the head makes me look impressive.

The young acrobats spread out around me, hefting shields and small swords of their own. With mock serious expressions on their faces, they rush me all at once. They throw themselves dramatically backward and away the moment my axe touches their shields. They tumble gracefully off stage and I toss the axe after them.

A middle-aged woman lands across from me as I wipe sweat from my brow and flex my slender arms for the crowd. She flicks a long, straight stage sword at me and advances with careful grace. I attack, and she parries; her counter-thrust catches me in the stomach and pushes me back. She flicks the sword from my stunned hand, and the crowd gasps. I backpedal, backflipping and sidestepping out of the way of a series of stabs and slashes, which puts me with my back to the edge, only the balls of my feet on the stage.

She lunges; I roll forward and to my left, putting myself behind her sword arm. In the middle of my roll, eyes open, I see her sword slash down in a low strike and end my roll with a leap in the air over the blade. Her surprised eyes are inches from mine as I reach out, my left arm over hers. As she tries to step back and bring her blade to bear, I step forward with her and turn my whole body to the right, cinching her forearm to my side and bringing her elbow high in the air. Her spine contorts and she stands on her tip-toes to accommodate the grip; the sword falls listless from her grip. I march her a few steps forward and hip-check her off the stage to a wild round of applause.

With her sword collected into my sash, I rile the audience a bit more. Real sweat is on my brow now, and I'm warming to this game. Two more large men thump to the stage, each with a pair of handaxes, but I never learn what ploy they plan.


	3. The Circus, Part 3: The Raid

With a great tearing and swearing from above, the tent rips open. A bright white light pours down on me, and I hear the actors above scrambling as the support ropes snap and the backstage tips. For a confused second, I and the audience think it's part of the act.

Most Sheikah catch the bundles of props, or the net itself, but some few fall screaming to the ground. It's still not far enough to kill, but sure is far enough to injure. There's no way this is grandmother's plan, and in the sudden brilliance I can't tell whether grandmother clings or falls.

"STAND DOWN," a tinny voice bellows at a volume that puts grandmother's trained voice to shame. "CEASE YOUR DRILLS AND STAND DOWN. PUT YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEADS AND KNEEL IN THE NAME OF CALATIA. THIS WARNING WILL NOT BE REPEATED."

I bolt. I can't say why. I can't say why any of this is happening. Interestingly, many of the crowd bolt as well. I run along the crowd's shoulders and leap off outside the tent. There's a sound like a roll of thunder from inside, and I look back to see a gigantic metal ship, raised a good eight meters from the ground on a pair of steel legs, peering into the hole in our tent. A second walking ship stands outside the tent's other exit. This time I see the lightning that branches down, multi-armed, into the fleeing crowd. The Midorans are bowled over, electricity crackling across their bodies as they twitch, stunned, on the ground.

Not seeing anything better to do, I run for Alfon's bar. I hear a boom behind me and look around in time to see one of the town's cannon's shot burst against the side of the second walker. It teeters dangerously in it's footing in the swamp outside town, but rights itself. I see the spotlight of a third ship coming through the dark evening mists on the far side of town, towards the source of the shot.

I draw up short in wonder to see my grandmother already in the bar, conversing in a hurried whisper with Alfon. She looks up as I arrive, and beckons me over urgently.

"We haven't much time, love. Give me your pendant and wallet." I may have balked at such a request from anyone else, but grandmother's are worthy recipients of blind trust. I pull the wallet from a pocket and fish out my mother's white gem on its homemade necklace.

Grandmother is a legend of legerdemain in our troupe, and the items seem to vanish as soon as they touch her hand.

"Good. Now listen to me. I wish it weren't so sudden, but you need to know – "

There is a crack of thunder, and blinding light. The pain is intense, as every muscle in my frame seizes against its neighbour.

The first land boat's spotlight peers down at us. Soldiers in black armour block parts of it momentarily as they rappel down from above. Before I can regain use of my muscles they've landed on the turf, on the roof of the bar cart. I manage to turn my head and see one scoop up and bind my limp grandmother; Alfon raises an arm in token resistance as a soldier strikes him with a narrow black club which crackles with electricity. The electricity arcing over his body redoubles and he falls back down.

A soldier flips me over and roughly binds my hands behind my back. My face in the wet turf, I can just see her face. With a shock, I realize that she's not human at all. What I took to be full helms are mechanical heads; smooth glassy fronts that look like visors, with no visible eyes at all. She pulls me roughly to my feet, and I find that I can stand. Her hand, hard and firm as a vise, never leaves my wrists. Her every movement is accompanied by a whirr of clockwork, different speeds at each joint.

With a great whining of gears, the ship settles itself down. The legs bend backwards and the rear of the ship splashes into the bog, while the keel crushes several wagons as it lands heavily on the town. Ramps are lowered onto solid ground, and automata start hustling prisoners aboard.

One or two more cannons have sounded, but they are still now. I can hear my brief friend the tomcat call out in the distance, and then only the ringing of clockwork soldier's boots on the metal gang planks and deck.

My captor pulls me to my feet, and I walk obediently in front of her. The whole operation is eerily efficient. Midorans and Sheikah alike are lined up on a wide parade ground taking up the front half of the ship. Some stand, like me. Others are carried like sacks of potatoes. Grandmother is one such, two soldiers to my left.

Two men and a woman, refreshingly human, walk out from the cabins occupying the stern half of the ship's deck space. They wear crisp red jackets with military insignia, white breeches, and tall black boots. I blink and shake my head to clear it. They look… bored. They walk down the lines of prisoners, inspecting faces. At my grandmother, they request that the automaton turn her around. With one hand around her hips and the other across her shoulders, it pins her to its front. Her head lolls like a rag doll's, and one of the men grabs her chin to inspect her face.

"It's her," the woman says, consulting a clipboard. The other man uncaps a small vial of some red liquid and holds it beneath Grandmother's nose. Her eyes flutter and her body tenses as she returns to consciousness.

"Impa of the Sheikah," the first man says. "You and your troupe are under arrest for conspiracy to produce illegal weapons and illegal militia activity."

"We're performers," she croaks out, disgust hanging off every syllable.

"You were seen conducting and demonstrating organized weapons training," the man replies. Squinting, I recognize his insignia from a rather dull book I read two years ago and have since traded away. He's the ship's captain. The woman is his first mate, and the other man his second.

"It was so witnessed," the first mate says.

"Seconded," the second mate chimes in.

"Just happened to be in the neighbourhood, were you?" my grandmother asks. "Witnessed all this before tearing our tent in half, did you?"

"You will be processed in Calatia Castle Town jail," is the captain's only reply. He turns and strides away. Their party walks past me on their way back to the cabins, and I overhear him add "Honestly, the formalities to this job. The sooner this part is automated the better. It's just a matter of facial recognition…"

Clockwork soldiers pull me away before I can form a question for grandmother Impa. Everyone is taken below decks and shoved into miniscule cells, lit by the dimmest of electrical glows.

The ship stands and walks away in sickening, lurching strides. The journey takes nearly six hours, and the less is said of it, the better.


	4. The Castle, Part 1: The Jail

Cramped in my cell, I have no idea where we are or what's going on. Though cells line the narrow corridors tightly, it seems that Midoro and our troupe were too small to pack the three ships that came for us. Most of the cells around me are empty, and the awful rumble and screech of gears prevents any shouted conversations. I barely even manage to glimpse the people in the cells nearest to mine, but I can tell they're Midoran. I can't remember the last time I was entirely separated from the troupe.

The prison ship docks roughly. Us prisoners are decanted by our clockwork captors. The docking is so tight that we transition from claustrophobic metal corridors to the stonework ones of our destination – Calatia Castle Town, presumably.

Various indignities follow. I am frogmarched into a long room by one of many doors on the long side, which I'm pretty sure is south. I've always had an unerring sense of direction. I'm not one of those fools who needs to find a compass wherever they go.

Grim-faced guardswomen – human, as a pleasant change – methodically search me. My wrists are still bound and held in the automaton's steel grip. My hands have lost all circulation, and I wonder with some fear if they have been starved of blood for too long to ever work again.

Other prisoners filter in from the other doors on my side of the room, to be met by their own sets of guardswomen. All the female-presenting members of our troupe seem to be coming through here, as well as the Midoran women. One of the teenage girls in our troupe, Cottla, turns her white, scared face in my direction. "Zelda! I'm so glad to see you! What's going – "

A guard strikes Cottla in the face with what I recognize as the same type of electric bludgeon the soldiers were using. Fortunately, this one doesn't seem to be active. "Speak only when spoken to," the woman snaps. The girl starts to cry. I try to give her a reassuring look, but I'm sure it must come out looking sick.

The guards frisk me, remove anything valuable or dangerous or interesting. My pockets are empty already, even my pendant removed seconds before I was taken. My automaton releases my wrists, but stands by watchfully. They strip me, cutting my bonds to do so, and instruct me to put on grey, baggy pants and long-sleeved shirt. No shoes are provided.

I scan the room. Several of my less cooperative troupe members are beaten for talking, struggling, or simply refusing to cooperate. Our clothes and valuables are sorted into bins.

At a guard's signal, the automaton takes me by one shoulder and walks me out the north side of the room. One of my two guards lead us through some winding corridors, unlocks several doors with different keys, and finally directs me into a tall cell in a high-ceilinged, drafty room. Several empty cells are on either side of mine, lining the western side, and high windows on the eastern wall let in a chill breeze and a faint light. They're too high for me to see through.

I comply, and step into the cell. The guard locks the cell, and moves to walk away without a word.

"Wait!" I cry, moving forward and gripping the bars. "How long will I be held here? What happens next? What do you mean to do with us?"

She unclips the electric baton from her belt, thumbs some control on the handle. Arcs of blue light crawl over it and she taps it to the bars in the cell door. Instantly my muscles seize as lightning arcs through every bar in the door and through my body. She frowns in irritation at me and marches off, clockwork soldier in tow. By the time my jaw unclenches, she is gone.

I slump to the floor, not even bothering to scoot backwards towards the wall. My body aches from rough treatment, and my hands start to burn as feeling finally returns to them. My mind is sluggish from the sleepless night. I feel a deep sob building in my body, and close my eyes. Yes. Sobbing on cold stone in the fetal position sounds like the appropriate course of action.

Yet… I feel warmth. On my shoulder, on my back. My delirious brain is feeding me the sensation of being embraced from behind, just like my grandmother used to when I was a child with a bloodied knee. I take a deep, steadying breath. I can even smell her.

My eyes snap open. Grandmother chuckles. "No need to cry, my love. Things aren't yet as bad as all that." I half turn in her arms. Seated, I am only a head shorter than her.

"Grandmother?" I stammer in disbelief. "You're here," I point out dumbly.

"I'm here," she sighs, and smiles. It's a tired smile. She seems worn and thin. She sits herself beside me, cross-legged. Despite her years, she normally moves like an acrobat; for once, her movements are as old as I know her to be.

"What now?" I ask. "What were you about to tell me, back in the village?"

"I wanted to tell you what you need to know."

"What do I need to know?"

"That you need to think."

So, I sit and think about this. I'm not frustrated. It doesn't even occur to me that she's not giving me new and useful knowledge.

Maybe she takes my thought for confusion. She prompts me: "You need to see. You need to learn. What have you seen tonight?"

My mind stirs. A gust of cold air bites down from above; I shiver, but the cold wakes me up. I think.

"Calatia brought a lot of strength to bear on one tiny town. Either their military is immense, or they had a lot to fear." Grandmother nods. "The former is likely, because the officers seemed bored. They had done many raids before. The guards – who must be castle guards, this stonework architecture obviously makes this Calatia Castle – knew the process well, so this has been going on for a while. Midoro, which is part of Calatia, had artillery, large-scale weapons. I stumbled into their ammunition greenhouse, and it was new. They used those weapons against some sort of… natural disaster? Giant flying ship, or creature? At a guess, Calatia is arming itself against some outside threat, but the capitol is at least as afraid of its own townsfolk as the threat itself."

Grandmother quirks an eyebrow. "Were you eavesdropping on my conversation with the Midoran Elders, or is this lucky guesswork?"

I pause. The words and tone are skeptical, but there's a twinkle in her eye. "Neither," I assert. "I acknowledge that I could be wrong, but I have strong evidence and am comfortable with my assessment."

She smiles, pleased with my confidence. Her tone still challenges as she says: "Comfortable, are you? I'm glad one of us is. What are you going to do with your assessment?"

In my state of shock, my experiences flowed off my conscious mind like water from a duck's back. Now they rush in. My body starts to shake, and I stutter, "I…"

Grandmother leans forward, puts a warm hand on my knee. "What do you want?" she asks, tone soft. "This one isn't a trick question."

"I want to go home."

"Everyone from our caravan is here. Home is wherever we are. What does your answer mean?"

"I want us to go free," I try.

"How will you achieve your goal?" she asks.

"I have no idea." I hug my knees.

"While you figure it out, do what your grandmother wants you to do, then." She pats my knee and removes her hand. Her eyes meet mine in solemnity.

"Anything."

"I want you to start by getting yourself free. Tell me how you'll do that for me."

A moment of silence stretches long. The wind pours through the window, billows in our baggy clothes, gusts dry dust from corner to corner. As the shock fades, my mind opens again and important observations seep in. Words spill out of me, not a waterfall, but the careful outlet of a dam.

"The ship was mostly held by clockwork soldiers, but the guards here are human. They all wear the same armor; breastplate, vambraces, and helm of black steel over black leather clothes. They all carry lightning batons on one hip. A thin cable connects it to a box on the opposite hip, presumably a power supply. The resulting kit is too bulky for our sort of acrobatics and mobility. If I could get out of their grasp, unbound, and escape to the rooftops, they could never catch me."

Impa nods. "A simple plan, and one that plays to your strengths. I will share what I have noticed: some guards carry crossbows with heavy bolts that carry their own electric charge. Stay not only out of their grasp, but out of their sight."

I stand and pace. "I'm sorry to disappoint, but I'm still trapped in a cell. Are you as good a lockpick as you are an illusionist?"

"You don't need to my help to get out of here. It seems I need to remind you not just to look at your surroundings, but see them." She stares at levelly, still sitting, her mouth pursed in something near real disapproval.

I look. I see. "This cell… These bars are too widely spaced. I can walk out of here," I say, shock in my voice. Who would build such a terrible cell? What prisoner wouldn't think to turn sideways? "Who or what were these cells built for?"

Impa shrugs. I test my theory. It's tight; Alfon's chest would never fit through here, but my slender frame slides through with only a little squeezing. My eyes turn to the window, and see the same spacing between bars. I turn back to my grandmother.

"That wasn't what you were going to tell me in Midoro." It's not a question.

"Of course not." She struggles to her feet. I wince at how harsh her confinement has been on her. Or was she beaten? My chest tenses with anger, and I toy with ideas beyond mere escape.

Grandmother walks up to the bars. She reaches through and up to me. Baggy sleeves fall back to show her wiry arms all the way to the bicep. Her hands turn over twice, showing me empty palms and bare wrists. They flick in a strange motion, and suddenly she holds the wallet I was given as a tip in Midoro in her right hand, and my mother's gem in her left.

I gasp. Even for her… to produce two obvious valuables after a strip search and clothing change…

"Impressed?" she cackles.

"You need to explain that trick." I cautiously reach for the items. She gives me the gem, but pulls the wallet back.

"A magician never reveals her secrets," she starts, "so it is good for you that I am no magician. Crouch down and watch from below."

I obey. She holds the wallet in her palm, and slowly rotates her hand, holding the wallet from falling with her thumb. As it enters the shadow beneath her palm, she nudges it somehow into the shadow itself. Her thumb goes limp, and there is no wallet left to fall.

My brow is furrowed, my whole face wrapped around this impossible observation. Her right hand reaches out to my left, which holds the gem. With it held between our palms, she intones: "This is the cantrip of Twilight, the shadow pocket. By my power and authority in that realm and ours, I, Impa of the Sheikah, pass this ability to Zelda of Hyrule." She twists my arm, hard, so that my hand is on top. Her hand pulls away. Instinctively, even before my fingers could think to grasp the falling stone, I tuck it into my shadow.

We freeze. My face is stunned, hers smug. I know the stone is with me, as surely as I know that I have two feet. If I reach for it, it will be there.

Grandma pats my cheek. "Don't think about it too hard. You should know, though, the trick only works for small items with their own inherent magic. Could be gems, alchemically treated glasswork, certain trinkets…" With a wink, the wallet reappears, and she passes it to me. "I planted this ancient Sheikah wallet with the man in town, for him to give to you. It only holds 200 rupees, but you'll never lose it."

I slip it into the shadow pocket, still amazed. Just as I know I have ten fingers, I know that it holds ten rupees.

"Leave the castle, head into Castle Town," grandmother continues, sitting back down. "Find an old friend of mine, Professor Quinlan, and ask him for his advice. I need to stay here to advocate for our people. Remember us, but don't obsess over us. We'll be free some day, and we'll meet again. Do as we have always done; travel, learn, and better yourself."

Something niggles the back of my mind, but I could hear the dismissal in her tone. I could also hear footsteps in the corridor outside. With a million questions half-formed on my tongue, I run at the far wall. I take three steps up it, push off to reach the wall above our cell. The footsteps stop outside the door. I jump off again, gain enough height to reach the high window. Keys rattle in the lock below me. I squirm up and through the bars. As the door below me opens, I roll out onto a steep, shingled roof.

Only then does my first question form: What did grandmother mean when she called me Zelda of "Hyrule"?


	5. The Castle, Part 2: Rooms and Rooftops

Part Two: Rooms and Rooftops

There's a chill in the air. The first tickle of dawn threatens to highlight me on the deep amber shingles. I determine two priorities: escape before twilight's end, and find some warmer clothes.

I carefully follow this roof to the right, which I judge to be east. I manage a leap across a small cobbled courtyard onto another steep, shingled roof running north-south. From this new vantage, the castle looms high and wide to the north, all spires and turrets. To the south, a surprisingly low wall cuts off the buildings a mere hundred meters or so away from me.

I head that way at my best speed, keeping my eyes open for courtyards and windows, skylights and rooftop guards. I see none. Even the wall seems unpatrolled.

Scrambling up it, there's no alarm. Giddy with excitement but suspicious of the ease of my escape, I flit across the stone walkway to the low wall and crenellations on the far side.

I suck in air and backpedal immediately. The wall, low on this side, is built on the top of a cliff. Below me, a vast, dark landscape of mists spreads out below me, dizzyingly far down. The ground, the marshes, are all invisible. Other steep outcrops of stone peek their heads above the rolling hills of cloud, each with their own Calatian city slathered across the top. In the hazy distance, the ring of mountains encircling the Calatian valley can be seen.

The wind from the valley is extreme on the edge. No wonder no guard walks these walls; it was all I could do to push myself to the edge in the lee of a crenellation. I don't think I could jump off if I tried. I drop off the wall to a rooftop to think.

A faint clamour sounds from the halls and courtyards below. It occurs to me to wonder how, or if, grandmother covered my escape, and I realize the precariousness of my position.

I swing back onto the wall and push myself to the edge again for a moment. Instead of admiring the dark vista, I crane my neck to look east and west. The castle and cliff curve back north; this crag must be huge, larger than the curve of the castle wall that I could see from within. The town is north. I drop onto castle rooftops again.

Guards start to swarm from buildings and through corridors. With a Sheikah's grace, I make a beeline due north, toward the towers and high halls of the keep. Here on these short buildings, I could be mobbed from all directions as soon as I'm seen; the steep roofs ahead should be impassable for anyone without my training.

One tower stands out, and I aim for it. Frequent arrow slits make for an easy climb, if your hands are small enough to fit. They also imply a heavy guard…

I scale the tower with urgency, almost flinging myself from hold to hold. I hear no sound from inside, and don't pause to peek in. Circling as I climb to stay out of sight from the courtyards behind, I reach the top floor. Broad windows face out in all directions, giving the occupant a fine view of the castle grounds and distant peaks – a survey of everything but the town itself. One is cracked open to the morning breeze, and I'm in like a whisper to catch my breath and regain stamina lost to the climb.

A luxurious bedroom encases me. Wardrobes and bookshelves fill every corner, and a grand four-poster bed takes up nearly half the room. The bed's curtains are drawn back, showing a shock of messy blonde hair under the green coverlet. I freeze.

The figure doesn't move.

Slowly, I release my breath and thank my luck that this lordling is such a lazy boy.

I'm no thief in the night, but I've also never had any compunction against walking into strangers' homes and looking around. Maybe it comes of being a nomad and entertainer. This might be a good place to find warmer clothes, and this princeling surely wouldn't begrudge the loss of one outfit.

First, my curiosity carries me to the writing desk near the foot of the bed. In seconds, I scan a pair of letters on the desktop. They are between Prince Link and one Archduke Dragmire. Link inquired when it would be appropriate to go on a royal tour of the kingdom. Dragmire assured Link that he would bring the topic up with the king, but that it would take some time as there was much important imperial business that must take priority. A reply from the prince lies, barely begun, on top. This must mean that I am in the prince's bedchamber! I can't linger.

Several beautiful vases decorate the desk, and an irrational urge to smash them almost overwhelms me. Judging by the fragments in the waste bin, the prince had the same urge and couldn't resist it.

Hurriedly, I dig through the nearest wardrobe. Near the back, I find something that will do very nicely: a deep blue riding outfit that seems hardly worn. Everything else in the wardrobe is a shade of green; perhaps this simply isn't the prince's colour?

With a speed born of a thousand costume changes, I slip out of the prison rags and into new clothes. I find a pair of supple leather slippers in a jumble on the floor of the wardrobe that will keep my feet warm and safe, while still letting me climb. Sturdy but flexible trousers in a serviceable earth brown go underneath a fitted, thigh-length tunic in midnight blue with swirling black embroidery. The prince must be quite slight, for it's nearly a perfect fit. Over it all, I tie on a half-length cloak in the same blue, fine but not embellished. The cloak has a hood with a small, pointed peak. I don the hood and examine the effect in a full-length mirror.

Behind me, the figure on the bed rolls over, murmuring, and opens his eyes. Our gazes lock in the mirror, blue on blue. For several seconds, all is still. The alarmed sounds of guards ring from the courtyards below.

Without turning, I dash for the window. In the mirror, I see a flash of movement as he sits up, reaches a hand out to me. The north window opens; I seize the gutter and swing myself up and around onto the roof. With a running start, I plunge across the open space between this tower and the wall of the keep itself. A narrow window, hardly wider than the arrow slits of the prince's tower, is just wide enough to admit my desperate, wriggling self into the cool darkness of Calatia Keep.


	6. The Castle, Part 3: The Keep

Part Three: The Keep

The keep's corridors are cool, quiet, and creepy. I expected frenetic dashing and ducking out of sight of guard patrols, but it feels abandoned in here. The sounds of "divers alarums" from the outbuildings fade, and I creep along the passageways in my slippers, ears open for any sound. The natural light fades as I push deeper inside and is replaced by a diffuse network of eerie blue lamps. My sense of direction is good, and I make my way north.

Down a passage to my left, I hear the whirring of clockwork joints. My pulse accelerates; I flit across the junction but peek back around the corner. I see two automata, decorated much more elaborately than those in the raid on Midoro. They bear shields and lances, each with thick cables running into the machines' elbows. These must be royal guards, not foot soldiers; their equipment, lightning powered like the soldiers' truncheons.

I slip away and vanish down a side corridor. It leads down a short flight of steps into a larger room. No blue lamps illuminate the room, and it's almost pitch dark. I pause to let my eyes adjust. It's an abandoned kitchen; the pots and pans are well-used but clean, except their thin coat of dust. I carry on.

Most of the next hour is spent this way; seeing or hearing guards in the distance, ducking out of sight, keeping one turn ahead of them… By the time I'm through, I've memorized half of the guards' patrol routes. I cut through unused guard stations, bunk rooms, ballrooms, and parlours without seeing a living soul, but the castle is constantly patrolled by these automata. It implies a staggering amount of paranoia. The king must expect assassins at any time and mistrust the humans he rules.

It's hard to imagine the young Prince Link anywhere in this tomb of a keep. I think of his letters to the Archduke to petition his father, and wonder when last the prince last saw his father.

Based on what I saw of the keep from the outside, I must be near the northern face now but still too high for a useable exit. Though I have yet to encounter a single locked door, there were several scares when I peered around corners to find pairs of guards, perfectly still and silent, blocking doors to lower levels.

I've given up on finding a ground floor exit; right now, I will settle for roof access. Surely, I can find a way down the north wall. With that in mind, I work my way up floor after floor and find myself at a crossroads. From the west corridor, I cautiously peek up the northern way. It ends abruptly at a large and ornate set of double doors – watched by a double set of clockwork guards.

Ducking quickly out of sight, I am exceedingly grateful that their visual centers don't recognize my tiny movements. As I try to think of a plan, I hear a strange sound – real, human footsteps. They come from the south. They sound heavy, like those of a large man. Resisting the urge to run, I sneak back to an alcove down the west passage and crouch out of sight. I put one eye to a gap in the archway's decorative trim to see the walker.

The man who strides into view is huge and muscular. His long dark cloak and grey-brown skin make him almost wraithlike in the dim light, but a crest of flame-red hair highlights him. The cloak is trimmed with gold, and thrown back from a huge barrel chest covered by a rich burgundy vest. Light glints off a gold monocle as he glances down at a collection of papers held casually in one hand.

As he passes out of my sight to the north, I heard the whirr of clockwork joints. Are the guards accosting him? Surely not. Somehow, it's impossible to imagine the vast confidence in that man's stride being misplaced. He must be expected.

He might be my only chance to get through that door.

Heart pounding, I ghost my way forward again and peer around the corner. Two automata are bowing deeply to the stranger, while two more work an elaborate unlocking mechanism on the door.

"He's become, if possible, too frightened. Too cautious. Perhaps a touch of assurance is in order…" the flame-haired man murmurs to himself, and the door opens.

The large chamber beyond gets barely a glance; enough to see a raised dais in the middle of the room, and flights of stairs sweeping around the edges to a balcony and door at the back. Pillars and a thick railing should give me cover to hide on the stairs, but my mind is all on the knife-thin path that gets me in the room.

The man strides into the room. I see the two automata that opened the door for him step into line ahead of him, as a sort of honour guard. The two left behind maintain their low bows.

I am a shadow; I am a magician's assistant; I am not a character in this scene; I let this confident man be the main character and slink up the hallway. Five, six steps; I stop breathing as I slip behind one bowing guard. There's less than a foot between it and the wall. I have to duck under the butt of its lance. It starts to straighten and the doors start to swing closed right in the middle of my crouch. As the weapon's shaft arcs down with terrible, unconscious force, I plant my rear foot and dive forward into a roll.

Like a child's fingers around a slippery minnow, the doors slam shut behind me. The sound covers my roll. I'm not two meters behind the man, but he keeps walking. I vanish behind a pillar and peer out through the railing.

With a clack, the guards go to their knees in front of the dais. (I use the sound to crawl forward, using the rail as cover, to the second pillar. The fifth pillar borders on the balcony, and my door northward out of this room.) The man bows low.

"Archduke Ganondorf Dragmire," a deep voice rasps. It comes from a mound of sorts in the middle of the room, on the dais. I take a moment to parse what I'm seeing. A grand chair sits there, a throne. On it sits a huge man, thick white beard pouring down the front of his robes like a waterfall. He's mostly concealed by masses of thick cables rising from the floor, entering his robes at the ankle, the wrist, the neck. Some flicker with blue light; others are tubes carrying liquids to and from the body.

"King Rhoam Calatia," the Archduke replies, straightening. "Do I find you well? Are you comfortable?"

"As ever," the king says. "Your ministrations leave me without pain in my body, and I thank you. My mind is aggrieved, though. I must know what befalls my people. Tell me what happens in the mists; are my citizens safe? Have the behemoths been seen recently? Do we yet have a plan to slay them?" His voice booms throughout the throne room, and yet he struggles to use it.

I carefully retreat to the wall, keeping the pillar between myself and Dragmire. The stairs are too narrow to hide me completely, but I should be virtually out of sight from below. I crawl up to the third pillar.

"Those few brave souls who must stay in the service of your military are securing more villages each week, highness," the Archduke assures. "Just yesterday, Midoro was made safe. Its people endangered themselves and others with home grown explosives and invited lawless dissident forces to train them in a brutal, undisciplined form of warfare. All of these rogue elements are pacified, and we are treating them even now."

Halfway around the room now, I am in Dragmire's line of sight. The stairs narrow. Even lying down, I can see them through the railing. The guards remain kneeling, heads down; the Archduke seems intent on the king. With a shiver, I realize that the king must be nearly blind if he hadn't seen me roll into the room. Ever slower now, conscious of every twitch of Dragmire's face, I worm my way to the fourth pillar.

"That is welcome news," King Rhoam says. "But what of the leviathans? It has been years now that they terrorize our air lanes. You tell me that they even dive beneath the surface of the mists, as though hunting for squid in the deeps. Our mightiest warships cannot pierce their hides with our largest cannons. What news have you on their actions? Tell me how we will defend ourselves!"

Behind the fourth pillar, I breathe deeply and slowly, try to release my body's tension. Though I haven't been spotted yet, it seems impossible for the Archduke not to notice the motion if I continue from here. I resolve to stay safely hidden until the audience concludes.

"Ah, the matter of these… these 'wind fish' as the people have come to call them…" Dragmire says with distaste. "One was sighted near Midoro before we could intervene. It didn't damage the village, beyond, perhaps, scaring the locals out of what wits they had. Our cannons do harm them, my king; we drive them off, and none dare approach our island directly. The problem lies in killing one before it can escape. My researches continue. I am deciphering an ancient ritual to unseal a great power. When complete, I will have the power to keep our people safe from anything!"

"Is that… is that wise, my friend? That which is sealed by ancient magics was surely sealed for some reason…" The king's voice falters now, weakening.

"I take every precaution," Ganondorf soothes. "Leave it all to me. Aren't you tired now, my king? I keep telling you, your body needs rest. My treatments can only do as much as you let them."

"Yes… yes…" the king sighs. "That will be… very good…"

Archduke Dragmire stands there, attentive, expression stern, staring at the king through his small, gold monocle. Apparently satisfied, he turns… and begins to climb the stairs behind me.

I have an instant to react, as the pillars block his view. I scramble as quietly as I can up the last of the stairs. I hear his footfalls, measured, patient. Darting over to the door, I try the handle. It turns, unlatches with a soft click. With milliseconds to use, I throw myself through the door.

The hinges squeal loudly as it opens.

I slam it behind me and look for a lock. There is none.

The long hall I find myself in is lined with raised stands. On each stand, a glass case; in each case, a treasure. Skylights let in the cheerful morning sunshine, but even standing on a glass case, they're too high to reach. Doors line each wall, and I dash for the nearest.

The door I came in flies open as if a hurricane were behind it. The door I ran to is locked.

I hear only two steps before a huge hand closes on the back of my head. I twist out of its grip, but he pulls me back by my hood and flings me into the middle of the room. With a crash, my dead weight topples a stand. The glass case atop it shatters on the floor. I tumble as I land, but can't find my feet. I come briefly to rest amidst the broken glass, almost on top of the sturdy gauntlet contained in the case.

Ganondorf stands over me, grabs me by the collar, pulls me upright. I grab the gauntlet as he does, the only thing I can think of to use as a weapon.

"Who are you, little mouse?" His baritone washes over me. He didn't even lose the monocle in our scuffle. "How did you get in here, and why are you spying on me?" His fingers feel like iron, and they start to reach up under my hood, around my neck.

It's possible to win a fight with someone who is bigger, someone who is stronger. I'd been doing it onstage half my life. It might have been theater, but that didn't mean it was staged. If I couldn't outmaneuver the other performers, my part of the show ended early. If a strong man gets a grip on me, life becomes difficult, but I still have the twin recourses of flexibility and surprise.

The gauntlet slipped onto my left hand as if it was made for me. Flexing my fingertips into spearpoints, I thrust them into his armpits while curling my legs into my body, giving him nothing to hold but dead weight.

His fingers don't loosen. He grins. I instantaneously feel his balance shift, feel him trying to fall forward onto me. I bring my arms around his, drive each elbow down onto his forearms. His muscular arms don't bend, don't react. We are falling. My palms slap together, fingertips join into a unified spearpoint aimed straight at his throat. My legs uncoil, and I land on my left knee, right foot planted.

I hope his weight crushes his throat on my hands. It doesn't. With an implausible speed of reaction, he takes a half-step, catches himself.

We poise there for a second, his hands on my collar, my fingers to his throat, him bent over me on one knee on the ground. I see the back of the gauntlet on my left hand. The back of the hand has a triple triangle design in brass-on-silver, and there is a socket on the back of the forearm. It looks as though it once held a gem.

I take this all in at once. Time crawls by. Ganondorf tightens his grip with glacial slowness as I think.

The socket would fit my mother's gem perfectly. The gauntlet seems ever so slightly warm, and familiar. It's the same feeling my mother's gem always gave me, and, I realize, the Sheikah wallet did as well. Grandmother said those were objects with their own magical potency; this gauntlet must be, as well.

I relax my right hand and pass it over the gauntlet. I let the white gem drop out of its shadow into the socket, where it locks in place with a satisfying clink. A sensation of lightness and wild freedom courses down my arm.

I look back to the Archduke's face. His eyes are locked on the gem, left opened wide in surprise and right tightening around the monocle with furious focus.

"I am Zelda," I cry. His eyes turn to mine, and he recoils. "Of Hyrule!"

I release the magic in the gauntlet. Left palm open and facing right, fingers straight. A great wind surges under me. Ganondorf's grip weakens in surprise. I leap, straight up, pushed up by the gale. My left hand raises and shatters the skylight above me. I land, rolling, on the steep roof tiles.

Clockwork sentinels line the eaves of the keep like crenellations. The Archduke's voice bellows from below for guards, and their heads turn, lock on to me. I run down the slope of the roof at them. Barely a stone's throw worth of courtyard separates the keep from the outer castle wall, here. I can see the houses and buildings of Castle Town, built right up to the castle.

These automata are built like the royal guards inside, but with sure, steady feet built for the roofing tiles. I call on the magic of the gauntlet and gem. I make the same gesture, palm open and perpendicular to me. Mentally naming this maneuver a Gale Leap, I point my fingers forward and dive into the wind. It carries me horizontally, up and over the lances of the sentinels climbing to meet me. I travel over the courtyards, over the castle wall, and I'm falling, falling into the town.


	7. Castle Town, Part 1: The Districts

Chapter Seven: The Districts

Calatia Castle Town spreads out below me. The outer bounds of the plateau are visible. The castle and town share a peak, a pillar of sorts thrusting out of the mists. Thick even in the middle of the day, these mists blanket the entire kingdom. Having an unobstructed view north, east, and west, I see half a dozen more towns rising into sight on their own plateaus many kilometres away.

The town itself is layered with smog. Where the mists look silver from above, almost shining in the morning sun, a dark haze of smoke renders the town fuzzy and dim. Innumerable smokestacks vent the acrid stuff, and the rising wind from the edges of the plateau blow it all into a column, only gradually thinning out into transparency. One giant building on the west side of town hosts hundreds of vents and chimneys jutting out at odd angles, contributing as much pollution as the rest of the town combined.

I'm procrastinating. I'm about to die.

Paltry falls of three or four meters won't hurt a soul. Five to ten can injure you. This is – my eyes blur from the town's reek, and my gift for measuring distances fails me – more than that.

In my last second of life, I pull out of my spread-eagle fall and point my feet down. I'm ready to roll and break my fall as best I can. I've read that it's possible to survive falls from extreme height this way; I may get lucky and merely break my bones. There's a good roof below me, steeply slanted. Maybe I can slide a bit, bleed off some momentum before my final, perpendicular fate?

The gauntlet pulses. A burst of air sends soot swirling from the rooftop in crazy eddies, and rattles windows below. I land hard, but not painfully. I stagger, anticipating pain and broken bones and elaborate acrobatics to reduce the damage that never comes.

 _Good to know,_ I think, clamping down on a maniacal laugh. _The magic of the gem has an active effect, the Gale Leap, and a passive effect it performs without thought on my part._ Muffled voices sound below me. My heavy landing attracted attention.

The smog shields me from view from the keep, but I have to assume pursuit. This roof overlooks an abandoned alley. I leap across it to the building on the far side, scuttle up the shingles and finally sit to rest against the north face of a chimney.

My heart pounds. My breath is tight in my chest, and I force a deep lungful. I cough on the tangy city air, and the cough turns into a sob. The fine sleeves of the prince's purloined tunic muffle my coughs and dry my tears. It still smells like the fresh pine of his wardrobe, smells like the only pleasant place in that whole damned castle.

I don't think I can escape the city. Maybe my Gale Leap could carry me through the winds blowing up the cliffs and the gauntlet would let me survive the fall, but I would be lost without food or direction. The mists swallow any traveler who attempts to traverse the shifting mire without a guide.

Though there has been no sound of rooftop investigation, I need to keep on the move. I'm a fugitive here. Grandmother told me to find someone named "Professor Quinlan". I will ask him to help me escape this place.

These roofs are all the same; steep shingles, chimneys at regular intervals, narrow cobbled alleys. Doors, windows, small personal touches in the street below tell me this is a dense block of housing. The long buildings in this town must be like whole rows of conjoined houses. A sort of "town house". Remembering how many buildings I saw from the air, my mind reels at the size of this place. It must house hundreds, maybe thousands of people! Dozens of the towns of the mist could live here!

At the end of the alley, I see people going about their business in a wider road. Peering through the haze, I see larger profiles of a pair of clockwork soldiers on patrol. I'll need to be careful.

Drawing behind my chimney, I think back to my aerial view. Now that I have time to process, I make a mental map.

I landed in the south-eastern quarter of the city. I saw row after row of these long, low buildings, broken up by the occasional plaza. The smoke is thick here, and the whole place colourless. I name it the Workers' District.

Immediately above it in the north-east quarter the plateau slanted down, almost into the mist. It looked terraced, and there were hints of brown and green. They must be farms, though I'd hate to eat food grown in this choked environment. I dub it The Terraces.

To my left, in the south-west quarter, the smog was thinner and the buildings larger. I saw white stone, no doubt scrubbed daily, and the green of parks. Surely, homes of the wealthy and privileged. I'll think of it as the Noble Estates.

The whole north-west quarter was filled with a tangled, smoke-belching labyrinth of industry around one giant block of a building. A factory? A pier peered out over the mist on the western edge, and airships were moored there. Possibly another way out of town. My creativity exhausted, I call it the Industrial Zone.

I decide to strike west, thinking that the title of "Professor" implies prestige and wealth. Dropping into the alley and sneaking near the main street, I realize that I'll stand out like a giant cracked stone in the prince's clothes. Backtracking, I Gale Leap to the rooftops with a loud surge of air and disappear before anyone investigates the noise. I need to explore a few blocks before finding what I seek. Sprawled on my front and reaching down from the eaves, I reel the washing line in and snag a large shawl. Grey by design or from soot, it will render me anonymous here. I hesitate for a second, but slip the Sheikah wallet from my shadow and manage to clip the ten-rupee coin to the line with a clothes peg.

Dropping back to the street, I sigh. Inventory: one set adventuring clothes, one shawl, one wallet, zero rupees. Well, and two ancient magical artifacts of unknown power and immeasurable value. Clutching the shawl closed, keeping the gauntlet hidden, I hurry west.

Everyone here is dirty and soot-stained. All clothes are a shade of grey, black, or brown. Nobody makes eye contact. Most are streaming to the farms or the factory or coming from there with dirty hands and faces.

Passing through a small plaza, I overhear the first chatter in this eerily silent town. Desultory citizens haggle over sad vegetables at the dingy market stalls. A clockwork soldier stands at each corner; they're still as statues, but too clean to have been that way for long. All of castle town's people rush past them and avoid eye contact and I do likewise, pulse pounding. They take no notice.

The transition from the Workers' District to the Nobles' Estates is abrupt. The blocky buildings dead end. Several meters of quarantine zone separate them from a sturdy stone wall topped with blue, glowing wires. I don't need to test them to know that lightning current runs through them to deter desperate thieves from infiltrating the manors of the wealthy. Fans run constantly, mounted behind and above the wall, to push back the dirty air while vents near the wall's foot pump yet more soot into the Workers' District. This must be where the offgas from the wealthy's furnaces is dumped.

Even from a rooftop, the quarantine zone is too large to leap over. Too large for anyone else, at least.

I pick a chimney. Fingers of my right hand on the lip, both feet braced against the side. My left hand performs the gesture, and I plow through the thick air over the gap, over the wall, into the draft from the fans.

My sideways progress slows, stops, reverses. Not used to course changes in mid-air, I flail for a second as I am pushed back. My upper back hits the lightning wires and my neck whiplashes horribly. Muscles seizing, I manage to jerk forward enough to pull free of the wires and fall, gasping, onto soft grass in the Nobles' Estates.

My whole body tingles and aches from the lightning. It sparks visibly along me for a few seconds more, but I manage to get to my feet. It's good to know the body can tolerate at least a little of this sort of punishment, and does recover on its own.

This seems to be a sort of maintenance alley in the Estates. I take off the dirty worker's shawl, take my hood down. The prince's clothes should fit in better around her. I find a gardener's shed, and splash water from a bucket on my face to clean off the soot. The gauntlet and shawl might be harder to hide. Removing the gauntlet for the first time since I put it on, I wrap the shawl around it, tuck in the corners, brush off as much grit as I can. This bundle under one arm, I set out into the Estates.

Well-paved roads are laid out in orderly lines and artful curves around beautiful homes and upscale shops. Passerby are well-dressed and look happy, gossiping and chatting amongst themselves in small groups. I smile and wave back at several groups but keep my pace quick. I fall into character as a young lady out on an errand of mild urgency.

Half an hour later I'm footsore, sweating in the early afternoon sun, and very aware that I haven't eaten in nearly a day. I sit for a minute by a plashing fountain and stare at the water longingly. It would break character for this young noble to drink from a fountain, but even the iced water at the nearby café costs five rupees. I must have covered half the district with no sign of Professor Quinlan, but how would I find him? How would I even know if a house was his? Normally I would just march into each house in town and ask the occupants, but I don't think that would work here. For one thing, there are more than a dozen or so houses and for another these seem like the sort of people who expect others to enter their homes only on invitation.

The café is quiet. Empty tables with parasols for the sun await lunchtime customers. I approach the red-haired girl at the counter. She seems agitated.

"Hello!" I say as casually as I can. "I'm running an errand for my grandmother and forgot my wallet, but I'm frightfully thirsty. Any chance you could give me an ice water, hold the ice?" I hope my smile is disarming.

"Oh – what?" She smiles back, takes a break from nervously arranging stacks of plates. "Sorry, I didn't hear you come up. I'm not even supposed to be out here, my father should be back by now. Can I help you?"

I slide onto a bar stool and tuck my dirty bundle out of sight. "Where's your father? Is he in trouble?" I ask. What can I say – running errands for villagers is a deeply rooted instinct.

She frowns. "He's in trouble with me! He went to make the rounds delivering milk to our customers and should be home by now. He better be back before the lunch rush! I'm worried he got carried away drinking with a friend and lost track of time." She purses her lips and surveys the square, as if fearing that the passerby could become a ravenous swarm of customers at any second.

"Well, I could check on him for you. Tell him to come right back. Maybe that would be worth a drink on the house?" I offer.

"Are you sure? Didn't you say you were on an errand?" She pulls out a glass, fills it from a faucet behind the bar, hands me an ice water without ice. "That's a down payment. If you can pull him away from the professor, that's worth a free milk!"

"The professor? Is that Professor Quinlan, by any chance? I've heard of him, but I don't know where he lives." I say, not entirely hiding my excitement.

"That's the one," she says, sourly. "Head north from here and stay right as the road bends. He's near the crossroads, not the nicest part of town. Tell him Malon needs Talon to come back to the café _immediately_." She taps her chest. "That's me, of course, I'm Malon. Sorry I didn't introduce myself earlier. What's your name?"

"Um… Ambi," I reply. Belatedly, it seemed like giving Ganondorf my real name might not have been the wisest decision.

"Good to meet you, Ambi," Malon says, bustling around the counter. "Wow, I love your outfit! Do you know, it reminds me of what Prince Link wore to the autumn festival last year!"

"Yes… I, uh, had it made to look like his…" I ad-libbed clumsily.

"Oh, I don't blame you. He's sooo dreamy!" Malon gushes. "But, before we get sidetracked by his dreamy eyes or silky hair, could you go get my dad? Customers could arrive any minute!"

I nod, stand, collect my bundle. As I move to leave, Malon reaches for me and holds me by the shoulders. Looking into my eyes, she says: "You have saved me in my moment of greatest need, like the fairies in stories. Thank you, fairy girl." Her composure breaks, she laughs at her own joke, and hugs me. I hug her back, tearing up a little at the unguarded affection, the sheer normalcy in the gesture. I needed this today, on the most surreal and terrifying day of my life.

She lets me go. I smile weakly back at her. "Thanks for the water, and I'll see you later for that milk!" I flee to the north as the tears come in earnest.


	8. Castle Town, Part 2: Professor Quinlan

Chapter Eight: Professor Quinlan

Malon's directions lead me, as promised, to a worse part of town. The sun goes behind a cloud and the soot thickens as I approach the Industrial Zone. I can see the wall dividing it from the Estates. It's taller and thicker than the one by the Workers' District, and the lightning wires shine brighter and crackle audibly.

As the road curves around to the right it climbs a small hill, and I see what Malon must have meant by "the crossroads". Where the four districts meet, many layers of road stack on top of each other in closed iron tunnels. This district's entrance is at the top, so that the rich who condescend to visit the other districts can walk on the surface. The workers who scurry constantly between the factories, terraces, and their homes must march through claustrophobic, rattling passages literally under the feet of their wealthy neighbours. Though I've read about such extreme differences of privilege in books, I find the sight of it unsettling.

I needn't have worried about recognizing the professor's house when I saw it. The houses in this end of town are less luxurious, and vacant lots separate some of them. One house stands out, surrounded on all sides by these vacant lots. It is a four-storey monstrosity, one whole corner of the house missing as if blown off and covered by a tarpaulin. The many windows host telescopes and elaborate instruments (for measuring atmospheric conditions, at a guess), are boarded up, or both. No soot rises from the many chimneys, and only a faint light shines from within as I approach the door. I knock.

I knock again. As I raise my hand for a third time, the door swings open with a creak. Nobody is visible inside. "Hello? Professor? Talon?" I call.

"Do come in before the soot builds up. I can't stand the scrubbing." The voice is tinny, old, cracked, and without source. Stepping inside, the door squeaks closed behind me. I see the cord that pulled it open and follow it through a series of tubes into the ceiling. An old brass device that looks like the business end of a telescope catches my attention. The image of a giant distorted eye appears in it for a second, and I flinch.

"Come on up, come on," the voice continues. "I know it's rude, but I don't have a manservant to greet or escort you and my joints ache too much to manage the stairs for mere politeness' sake. Turn left, then right, then straight up the stairs. We're in the drawing room."

I take another second to scan the dingy interior and spot the speaking tube that carried the voice. Satisfied, I follow the directions up the stairs.

Two men sit in armchairs in an orange-lit room. Bookshelves line the walls, and the hearth contains a glowing slab of rock instead of a fire. It emits the warm light, as well as the literal warmth that floods the room. I take off my half-cloak in the heat.

With visible effort, a very old man scoots the chair nearest the hearth around to look at me. Wild tufts of white and grey hair fly out of his head at odd angles. His face is lined and sunken, almost skeletal. His hands peek out of the sleeves of his deep purple robe; they are thin and covered in liver spots and chemical stains. "Talon!" he yells.

The other man snorts awake. He's middle-aged, heavily built, with black hair and a thick black moustache. As he comes to, he wipes his hands on his blue overalls. "Huh? Yeah? I'm awake. Is it morning already?"

"Very late morning," I reply. "Malon needs you back at the LonLon Café for the lunch rush."

"Oh… Ahh!" he exclaims. "I'm really gonna get it! I musta drowsed off again! I always lose track of time in this musty old room! Why don'tcha have any windows in here, you old codger?" The last is directed at Quinlan.

"My joints need the warmth and my lungs can't handle the soot," the professor replies primly. "And you need to sleep more at night."

"That's been awful hard, since… my wife… the war…" Talon bumbles around a little, finds an empty glass bottle on the side table and shoves it into a pocket. He immediately removes it again and peers at it. "Is this one yours or mine?"

"I've got mine right here, old chap," Quinlan replies in a gentle voice. "Use the meditation I've been teaching you. It works here, doesn't it?"

"Can't argue with that," Talon says, shakes Quinlan's hand, and clatters down the stairs at speed.

Professor Quinlan catches me assessing him. "I've been waiting for you, young Zelda."

I start. "How did my grandmother let you know I was coming?"

He chuckles. "No 'how did you know who I am' or 'wait, I never told you my name'? I do so love that part."

With a shrug, I explain: "You obviously know my grandmother since she described you as a friend. If you're friends, you are presumably in contact. Since you know my name, she must have told you about me at some point. I just can't figure out how you knew I would be here today. Does she have a secret, magic way of contacting you? Are you both sorcerers? Are you… my grandfather?"

At the first question he opens his mouth to respond. At the second, he closes it to smile. At the third, he breaks out into a ragged cackle that goes on long enough to be uncomfortable, and then long enough for me to worry about his health. It drags out into a long cough, which ends with him sipping a glass of water from his side table. I sit in Talon's chair and wait for him to recover.

"No, child, I'm not your grandfather," he chuckles again. "Your grandmother's not so much of a cradle-robber as all that. 'Sorcerer' is a complicated and arguable label and I won't speak for her, but I suppose it could apply to me. And no, she doesn't." His keen eyes find mine. "I didn't start waiting for you today, young miss. Check your assumptions."

I think about this for a few moments. "My grandmother's been captured by Calatian soldiers. The Sheikah were unjustly accused of training an illegal militia. I escaped, and my grandmother told me to come to you. For advice." I hold eye contact.

"For advice?" His patchy eyebrows raise. "I'm surprised she thinks so highly of my judgement. Did you know that I'm a battle-mage of the Calatian Empire?"

I stand and instantly tense to flee. He waves at me to sit. "Used to be, used to be. They let me go. I'm quite mad, you see. But I needed to prove a point. How could you be sure I wouldn't call the guards the moment I heard you had escaped from the dungeons? From my own king's dungeons!"

I sit slowly, rest at the edge of the seat. Feet on the floor, hands in my lap. "My grandmother said you were a friend. You don't seem mad."

"Friends aren't always trustworthy. I'm not mad… at you." He cackles at his joke. "Your grandmother is a remarkable woman, and an excellent judge of character. I'm certainly not going to turn you in. In fact, you're welcome to rest here." He glances at a clock on the wall. "I can even treat you to a midnight snack. You seem hungry."

"It's not midnight. It's around noon."

"I can never keep those two straight. A noon snack, then! Doesn't roll off the tongue as well." He takes another long sip of water, settles deep in his chair, and closes his eyes.

My stomach gurgles. "Um…"

"What are you waiting for?" His eyes snap open. "The kitchen's right through the door behind me. Well, down the hall, third door on the left. No, third door on the right, the left is the chemical laboratory. Help yourself. Fix me a sandwich while you're in there, won't you?"

"A sandwich?" I say icily, my gratitude rapidly going sour.

"Listen," he whispers, eyes closed again. I lean forward. "I'm going to teach you maaaaagiiiiic. Surely a sandwich isn't too much to ask of an apprentice. Don't wake me if I'm asleep when you get back. Whatever I say to Talon, I can't sleep at night… either…" He lets out a soft snore. It sounds fake.

The kitchen is where he said it would be, and I assemble two sandwiches. Salted meat, brown bread, spinach. The kitchen has an ice box, but the fresh bottle of milk Talon just delivered is left out on the counter. It's very full, yet after I pour two servings for us it's empty. Curious, I examine it; though it's large, the glass is extremely thick. I rinse it at the faucet and marvel at the engineering behind this city. I'm used to hand pumps, or boiling water from streams.

Professor Quinlan is motionless when I return. I check to be sure he's breathing; he is.

I set down my bundle of shawl and gauntlet, eat my sandwich standing, and examine the drawing room's library. A volume entitled "Mysteries of the Arcane" catches my eye. Opening it, I find that Quinlan is credited as the author. Before the preface is the inscription: "Recommended pre-reading: 'Solved Problems of the Arcane', also by Prof. Quinlan."

Sandwich gone, milk finished, I sit to read by the hearth light. I love reading, even dry non-fiction, but the words blur together in the orange light. "Mysteries" does presume a familiarity level with "time dilation mechanics, mass inversion principles, and fourth-dimensional rhetoric" which my education has not provided me. I drift off…

…And wake with a start from a dream. A dark shape with iron fingers was choking the life out of me… I slumped in my sleep and my collar was tugging at my throat. The hearth slab is dark, and the only light is a trickle from the open door to the hall. Quinlan is gone. I look around in flaring panic; the shawl lies open and the gauntlet is nowhere to be seen. In its place is a note. In almost illegibly elaborate handwriting, it reads: "Find me in my study. – Q"

I force my breath to slow. In, out. I recover my hooded half-cloak. This probably isn't a sudden yet inevitable betrayal. Still, I slide out of the room without a noise. In the hall, I set my feet down carefully near the walls to minimize creaking from the floorboards. I glide back into the kitchen.

A small knife with a leather blade sheath vanishes up my left sleeve, but then immediately tumbles free. Hmm. Right. This isn't Sheikah clothing, with a thousand practical pockets. I find a length of string, tie the sheath tightly to my arm under the sleeve. After some practice wiggles and gesticulations to make sure the knife won't fall free of the sheathe as I move, I set out to explore the house.

Besides the kitchen and drawing room, three doors lead off the second-floor corridor. Two are locked, but one is ajar. I push it open cautiously with one hand, staying out of the doorway so that I won't be silhouetted against the light of the corridor. Nothing happens. It's dark in the room.

I slide in along the door and then whisk myself behind it. I let my eyes adjust, but I recognize the smell of this room at once. It's a wardrobe. No performer could miss that scent of clothes in storage.

I gradually make out closets lining one wall, mostly open. They contain set after set of clothing: mostly the professor's signature purple robes, but in many sizes. Opening one of the closed closets, I see more varied outfits. These seem mustier, like their storage is long term. Near the top, one catches my eye. Short and loose white pants, knee-high sandals, and a green vest… I close the closet.

On the other side of the room is a long shelf with a long row of green ceramic pots on it. They're all empty. Curious. Just decoration?

In the center of the room, set into the hardwood floor, is a circle of metal. It's hard to see in the dim light, but there are engravings running along the outside edge. I take a care not to step into it.

Leaving the room, I notice similar engravings around the doorframe. I steel myself for some magical disaster as I step out into the hall, but nothing happens.

At the end of the hall, a landing. Stairs reach up to the third floor to my left, and this passage of stairs once had a fine row of south-facing windows to light it up. Now they are boarded over. Peeking through a gap, I see that the sun is setting. Malon's lunch rush is long over.

There's a light at the top of the stairs. As I reach the top, I see that what I took to be third and fourth storeys from the street are one huge room. It plays host to a number of huge and complex clockwork apparatus that I would ordinarily love to examine, but my focus is drawn immediately to the center of the room.

Professor Quinlan stands on a stool behind a large desktop workspace, facing the stairs. He's fixated on the gauntlet, which sits on a tiny podium of dark metal. He has clamped it in place with leather straps, like a patient in surgery. As I stride forward, not quite willing to shout across the vast room, he attaches two thin wires to two separate fingers and flicks a switch out of my sight under the desk. One wire glows an indigo colour that my eyes can't bring into focus; the other stays dark.

"That's mine," I say, as soon as I'm close enough to say it with the determined dignity of a noble hero in a play. He looks up in mild surprise, eyes framed by round gold spectacles. In that instant, an explosion of air bursts from the gauntlet in all directions. The professor tumbles backward off of his stool; the gauntlet bursts off the table with enough force to carry the podium with it. The wire snaps loose and writhes frantically along the top of the desk, scorching its stone surface. Quinlan scrambles, flicks the switch again, and the cable falls limp and dark. The podium and gauntlet land on their side at my feet with a dull clunk.

I hastily unfasten the gauntlet and slide it back on. The fit is still perfect. I appreciate how supple the leather is despite sitting in that display case in the keep for who knows how long. I admire the fine carvings in the metal of the vambrace, the triple triangle design inlaid on the back of the hand. My attention is brought back to the present by the professor's groan.

"Oh… ow… I think I broke my wrist!" He says, drawing to his feet slowly and holding his left hand like it was a dead bird.

"What were you _doing_?" I ask, not quite sympathetic.

"Hmm? I was trying to break it, of course," he replies.

"What?!"

"If I could have, it couldn't have been the real thing! Now I can assure you that you hold the true Gauntlet of Gamelon. Congratulations," he grunts, obviously in pain.

"But what were you doing, specifically, as I came in?"

"Well I'm sure I don't know how long you've been here, young lady! I never heard you come in! Maybe you came in while I was taking a rubbing of the engravings, or perhaps while conducting a photocentric examination of the gem. You certainly could have snuck in as I prepared the safety precautions. You know, I had to rig up a pulley system to get the lead insulator on the table?" He gestures sadly at the podium at my feet. "It weighs nearly fifty kilograms*. I thought that would be plenty."

"I spoke as soon as I was close enough! What were you doing with the wires?"

"Ah! Well, then, you missed the etheric conductivity test. Total absorption. Like the gauntlet's a sinkhole to another place entirely. You would have entered just in time for the thaumic resonance examination. As you can see, there was quite a bit of it!" He gestures at the papers, pencils, and other equipment scattered around the room from the burst of air.

My heart rate slows a bit. "So when you say you were trying to break it, you don't mean you made an attempt to destroy it. You were testing its properties."

He looks at me like I'm the madman. "Of course that's what I was doing. That's what I said." He heaves himself up to a sitting position on the stool.

"And… thaumic energy created that indigo light. That's a sort of magic, isn't it? I've read about the thaumaturgy practiced by Calatian battle-mages. You were testing its 'resonance' and 'conductivity', so essentially you wanted to know if different types of magic would pass through the gauntlet, be stopped by it, or produce an effect. Is that about right?"

He started nodding along half way through this speech and now cuts in. "Yes, yes, quite. As has been documented about the gauntlet, it absorbs etherium, resonates with thaumaturgy, and who knows how it responds to sanctorium. Who knows how anything responds to sanctorium! Blasted substance. Terribly far from our reach."

I mull this all over and put my questions on hold. "When this gem is inserted into the back of the gauntlet, I can create bursts of focused wind. It's strong enough to lift me, and I'm a little over sixty kilograms. I'm not surprised it had no trouble with your weight."

"Ah!" He leans forward. "That is good data! That is new data! That would have been very good data to have when taking safety precautions!"

"You could have asked. As the bearer of the gauntlet, I might know more about it than you do. For that matter, you should have asked me for permission to experiment on it!"

He blinks at me owlishly. "This truly never occurred to me. Ah, my. It is so long since I have had visitors besides Talon. Not much social practice. Not at my age."

I find another stool, right it, and sit across the desk from him. "How old are you?"

"Forty-two." I notice he has to glance over at a calendar on the wall to answer the question.

"You… don't look it?" I say to the withered, liver-spotted man across from me.

"Eh… don't I? Well. I may need to skip back a few steps anyway. This pain… rather distracting! Can't teach if you can't breathe freely, that's what I always say! Would you mind looking away for a minute? I need to change my pants."

This is all a little much for me. Either he's being inscrutable on purpose, or him being mad is not entirely a joke. Having no wish to discover exactly why he suddenly needs to change pants, I turn and walk away a good dozen steps to examine one of his machines.

A dozen metal rings are set inside one another. Each can rotate independently, and each ones axis can rotate within the ring around it. The outermost ring is the only one fixed in place. Fully two meters in diameter and attached to a giant flat stand, the whole arrangement in motion would probably look like a giant globe. It's not clear what would set it in motion, though…

There's a whip crack sound from behind me and I spin around. The professor stands behind his desk – I recognize his face, even without the wrinkles – but he stands straight now. His legs are longer, and he seems double the height. His face is young, and he has a full head of deep black hair. He rolls his left wrist and flexes it experimentally.

"Thank you, Zelda," he says in a deep baritone, removing and folding the gold spectacles. "Would you like to ask questions, or shall I explain?"


End file.
